Blow up

His name was Juan, and he was frustrated with the English language. He also loved his country with a profound passion and understanding that I found as endearing as I find my own native English, but without all the ‘I’m not mad, just disappointed’ head shaking, eye-rolling, and take-your-hands-off-the-wheel gestures ubiquitous within communities that decisively learn English as a second, or in Juan’s case, third fluent language. In his line of work as a guide and non-political ambassador for the country of Ecuador, I believe that he used English the most, his native Spanish second most, and his semi-native Portuguese the least most. He was, quite frankly, astoundingly good at his job. I spent four-to-five eight-to-twelve-hour days with him and was never once unsatisfied with, nor suspicious of his answers to my questions, and I asked a LOT of questions, one of which was, “So what is it about English that you think is so ridiculous?”

“Blow up.”

“What?”

“Blow up.”

“Blow what up?”

“Yes! See? That’s it exactly.”

“I.....what? I’m going to need you to fill me in on the details. You mind following up with some context?”

“You just did it again, twice. Two word verbs. English has two-word verbs. Blow means at least one thing, up means one thing, and blow up means something else completely different, but at least the words are together. ‘Fill in’ isn’t a two word verb unless you add a THIRD word to it, in the middle! And follow-up, following up....” This revelation enforced a period of me silently being lost in thought on top of observing out the windows, which allowed a rare question from the principals of the tour group who always sat in the back seat and talked to each other’s faces, and that question was whether Juan had ever done ayahuwasca. After a somewhat lengthy disclaimer, Juan spoke about his experience, which I listened to while I also pondered whether ‘two word verb’ was hyphenated, and if so, to what extent. He spoke about anger, and Tigers, and his Mother, for whom he had great respect and gratitude, and lived with. And he spoke of regret, and scars, and hope, and wishing for magic, and redemption, and a cure, and to wake up and be whole, and forgiven. And he said how disappointed he was that, when he was done, and he spoke to the shaman about how he felt different, the shaman spoke only of the truth that a tiger was a tiger, and a man was a man, and hope, and regret, and anger, and despair, and gratitude are all choices that a man gets to make, but the scars remain, and if you made those scars, you own them, and you must pay for them, and you must work very hard to be gentle and do no harm because every scar that you create, you also wear. Or, maybe, your scars wear you.

It was something like that. Like I said, my uno-linguistic world had just been rocked, and I was filing this all away until I had the courage to face it, or, if courage wasn’t available, the inability to face anything else because, once again, I blew up.

The aftermath of rage is always devastation, desolation, regret, loneliness, and hunger that is poorly sated by the licking of wounds. I’m so fucking hungry right now. I’m so sad, I’m so regretful, I’m so ashamed, I’m so wounded, I’m, I’m, I’m.....so......

I went for a walk. I wound up down at the dock, where I had an enlightening talk with a man who had every single thing that he needed, but struggled mightily against the ability to concentrate, and yet chose to express gratitude for all things over despondency. More than a decade is the span of time between our conversations, and yet still between us there exists compassion and understanding, and as we stood there for mere minutes with our scars revealed, we never had to mention them, at least not yet.

Sometimes you are gifted with the opportunity to repair, or atone for, the scars that you have created, and so, with that in mind, measured against trepidation, excitement, and undying love to achieve the whole, I went to visit my Eldest at work.

I left enlivened by the exchange, more so than I had in some too-long a time, and I, yet in the shadow of my earlier wounding, and despite appreciating the odd speckling of a bright ray caught, wondered about what the hang-up is, and what needs to be done in order for us all to get over it. I thought, like a fool.

And so, like Ebenezer Scrooge, I walk until I, still unwitting, encounter my third ghost. Work-mates were we, long ago, when we were younger, and not so wounded...perhaps. Sober now both, we are, and scarred, and so we speak first of smaller matters such as life, and work, but finding that fount quickly to run dry, we turn to pain. Perhaps it is what is in my eyes, perhaps it is writ large upon my flesh in broad, maggot-white lines, so in not asking, I ask for a brief tale of even briefer violence, now long past, but in that telling see the scars that still remain, and yet bleed. I see tears in ever-dry eyes, and in their reflection, see also what I have done.

fuck

It is said that anger is a secondary emotion. Secondary to what, I know not. It feels primary to me when I’m in it, when I’m on it, like a drug, like an addict, like an abusive piece of shit that cuts to the bone with every vicious word.

How can I feed you with love when I’m so fucking hungry?

When we’re all so fucking hungry.

How can love survive my embrace?

What a complete fuck up.

They’re called phrasal verbs.

By the way.

There’s lots of them.

As many as the roads to hell.